Five years ago, my parents bought ten acres of wooded land with the intention of building a house there, but then decided against living there. Now, those very woods are my woods, a place that has no ties to the world of chaos I live in every day; a place that allows me get away from everyone.
If you saw my woods from the outside you would probably see a forest filled with scrubby, little trees, guarded by a field of thorns, but that forest means so much to me. For if you can fight your way past the wild blackberry patches, multi-floral roses, brambles, and group of hawthorn trees, you will end up in one of the most peaceful places in the world, because past the thorns, the trees grow tall and majestic, giving you the impression that they touch the sky.
Here is my favorite place to be in the whole world, because I am the only human to step through this magical place, and I take pride in that. Here, in this untouched place, I wander under the blanket of the treetops, losing myself in the cool green and brown colors of this place.
I love to smell the pine-sap in the air, hear the quiet groaning of ancient trees, and watch the rays of sunlight filter down through the canopy of trees, leaving spots of light on the leaf covered floor. This place has no path and I simply walk from on tree to the next marveling at their size and untouched beauty.
This place carries a sense of nature that can inspire awe in me. One day, I looked in an old maple tree to see, hidden among the leaves, a tree house, rotted and ancient. I marveled at how it had been made in a shoddy way, and I knew in my heart that the boy who built this must be aged enough to be a grandfather. I have never been in the tree house, for if there was once a ladder to get up, it has been long gone and the tree has no low branches to climb. Sometimes I wonder about that tree house, a place I can see from the outside, but will never see the inside. I wonder what lies forgotten in that place.
On sunny days, I love to go to my favorite place in this forest. In this forest there lies a small clearing. In the middle of this clearing, the sun shines down and wildflowers that I have no names for blossom. Many times when I am in this place I sit surrounded by the red, purple, pink, and yellow flowers, with a notebook and clipboard.
I sit and write in this place, surrounded by nature and inspiration. Some of my greatest stories have been born here, and sometimes I don’t write at all; I sometime sketch the flowers, simply enjoying myself. One of my fondest memories happened in this clearing.
If you saw my woods from the outside you would probably see a forest filled with scrubby, little trees, guarded by a field of thorns, but that forest means so much to me. For if you can fight your way past the wild blackberry patches, multi-floral roses, brambles, and group of hawthorn trees, you will end up in one of the most peaceful places in the world, because past the thorns, the trees grow tall and majestic, giving you the impression that they touch the sky.
Here is my favorite place to be in the whole world, because I am the only human to step through this magical place, and I take pride in that. Here, in this untouched place, I wander under the blanket of the treetops, losing myself in the cool green and brown colors of this place.
I love to smell the pine-sap in the air, hear the quiet groaning of ancient trees, and watch the rays of sunlight filter down through the canopy of trees, leaving spots of light on the leaf covered floor. This place has no path and I simply walk from on tree to the next marveling at their size and untouched beauty.
This place carries a sense of nature that can inspire awe in me. One day, I looked in an old maple tree to see, hidden among the leaves, a tree house, rotted and ancient. I marveled at how it had been made in a shoddy way, and I knew in my heart that the boy who built this must be aged enough to be a grandfather. I have never been in the tree house, for if there was once a ladder to get up, it has been long gone and the tree has no low branches to climb. Sometimes I wonder about that tree house, a place I can see from the outside, but will never see the inside. I wonder what lies forgotten in that place.
On sunny days, I love to go to my favorite place in this forest. In this forest there lies a small clearing. In the middle of this clearing, the sun shines down and wildflowers that I have no names for blossom. Many times when I am in this place I sit surrounded by the red, purple, pink, and yellow flowers, with a notebook and clipboard.
I sit and write in this place, surrounded by nature and inspiration. Some of my greatest stories have been born here, and sometimes I don’t write at all; I sometime sketch the flowers, simply enjoying myself. One of my fondest memories happened in this clearing.
Continue to Footsteps in the Forest, Walking in the Sky page two